Savage Holiday

by Richard Wright

  One aspect of the accident bothered him above all: why had little Tony been so frightened of him as to lose his balance when he’d come running nude onto the balcony? Tony knew him, admired him; then, why had he gone into such a panic...? It’s true that he’d been naked, and, when naked, Erskine knew that he was not a pleasant or poetic sight...

  Erskine realized that a child’s mind was a strange shadowland, and what seemed ordinary to adults would loom as something monstrous or fearful to Tony who had lived in a world of Indians, horses, bombing planes, soldiers, whales, and perhaps things never seen on land or sea. What, then, had Tony associated him with that seemed so fantastic, frightful? Why had the sudden sight of him—huge, hairy, sweating, panting—sent Tony reeling?

  And where, in the medley of these unrehearsed episodes, did the element of his guilt lie? Was it because he’d denied any knowledge of how the child had died that he felt guilty? No. He knew that even now, if he told Mrs. Blake or the police how utterly blameless he’d been-he’d still feel guilty? Why?

  Never in Erskine’s life had his emotions been a problem to him; indeed, he had lived with the assumption that he had no emotions. From puberty onwards he had firmly clamped his emotions under the steel lid of work and had fastened and tightened that lid with the inviolate bolts of religious devotion. Now he felt ambushed, anchored in a sea of anxiety, because he was tremblingly conscious of all of his buried demons stirring and striving for the light of day. What did one do in situations like this? He then felt guilty of feeling guilty....Ought he to seek advice? But from whom? And about what? His strongest impulse at this moment was not to talk about this, to deny its existence; he felt that his telling others about it would make him feel even more guilty, that he was no longer master of himself, and he was far too proud for that....

  Erskine could deal swiftly and competently with the externalities of life. If something went wrong, he called in a lawyer, an accountant, or a policeman, and matters were righted at once. But who could one summon when one’s emotions went into a state of rebellion? Vainly he groped for an explanation that would enable him to deal with this. He felt tricked; things shouldn’t be like this! things were not like this. Things had become temporarily snarled; soon, however, he’d straighten them out again.

  What had occurred was simple and, being an executive, he ought to be able to arrive at a quick solution. All right: the thing to do was to tell what had happened....Then why all this perturbation, hesitation? Intuitively, he felt that some dark visitor, long banished from his life, was knocking at the door of his heart; and he didn’t want to open that door and see the strange but familiar features of that visitor’s face. But, if he didn’t open that door, what was he to do? Just listen endlessly to that hollow, resounding knocking?

  The honorable, Christian thing to do was to tell the police; he had connections; he had money; he could hire a lawyer. But, no; that was not the way out; not at all. Considerations of personal safety were not constraining him; he could, if worse came to worst, bribe his way out. But, out of what would he bribe his way? He wasn’t guilty...

  He had a foggy hunch that there was as yet some nameless act that he could perform that would right the wrong, redress the evil he had inadvertently done. But whenever he was on the verge of thinking of that act, of forming a clear image of it, he sweated, trembled, and all but sank under the weight of mortification and guilt. What, then, was that act? What dark nature, did it possess to evoke such distress in him? He sat upon his bed and stared unseeingly.

  He checked his watch; good God...He’d only twenty minutes to get to Sunday School...He showered, dressed, fumbling with his clothes, still nursing his wounded hand. If any investigation got under way, he didn’t want it said that he’d, perhaps from nervousness, remained away from church for the first time in ten years. And he needed the sustaining solace of his fellow-Christians at this moment. He was convinced that in the end his faith in God would lead him to a solution.

  He got his Bible, his book of Sunday School lessons and stood undecided before that fateful door that had slammed shut in his face. His stomach felt queasy; he drank a glass of water and let himself out. He crossed the bright, empty hallway, summoned the elevator, and rode down and went out into the street.

  A policeman stood a few feet from the fire hydrant, near the spot where little Tony’s body had lain. The streets were filled with Sunday quietness. He wanted to talk to the policeman, ask him what had been the opinions of his colleagues about Tony’s accidental fall; but he recalled that most of the crooks that he had caught, when he’d sleuthed in the insurance business, had betrayed themselves by talking too much. He forced himself to turn and walk down the block.

  It was too late to get his car from the garage, and he felt much too nervous to drive anyway. He hailed a taxi, gave the driver the address of his church, and settled back in the seat, mopping his wet face with a balled handkerchief. Now, what was his future conduct to be? Yes; as soon as church was over this morning, he’d visit Mrs. Blake and pay her his respects. But what would he say to her? And what, if anything, had been the meaning of that fixed, brief stare she had, while being supported by Mrs. Fenley and Mrs. Westerman, given him in the hallway? Or had he imagined that? Had anyone else noticed it? He chided himself for letting his overstrained nerves get the better of him. No one suspected anything; if they had, they’d have voiced it long before now. He’d better concentrate on his Sunday School lesson, which Tony’s death had robbed him of time to study, so as to be able to perform his religious duties without betraying the turbulent state of his emotions. Well, he’d improvise; with God’s help, he’d spread His Word...

  “Here you are, sir,” the driver said, pulling to the curb in front of a huge white sandstone church topped by a white cross.

  As he paid the driver, he heard the church bell tolling with melancholy softness through the sunny air. Compulsively touching the tips of the pencils clipped to his inner coat pocket, he strode with brisk, confident steps through loitering groups of young men and women and entered the church. A plaintive wave of hymn filled his ears:

  Just as I am, without one plea

  But that Thy Blood was shed for me,

  And that Thou bidd’st me come to Thee

  O Lamb of God, I come.

  Just as I am, though toss’d about

  With many a conflict, many a doubt,

  Fightings and fears within, without,

  O Lamb of God, I come.

  Long lances of soft light falling from stained glass windows made delicate crisscrosses in the dim, wilted interior of the church, and the serried rows of faces in the circular pews, arrayed one behind the other and stretching away into the shadows, closed around him like a sweet benediction. The nostalgia of the singing voices soothed his taut nerves and at once he felt better. The world seemed to be gaining in safety, solidity; this was his world, a world he believed in, trusted—a world he had supported all his life and which, in turn, buoyed him up with its sunlit faith from which all confusions had been forever banished by the boon of God’s great grace.

  At a long walnut table, placed before and below the pulpit, sat Mrs. Ira Claxton, smiling and nodding at him as always, her head crowned magically by a halo of snow-white hair; she was, bless her, filling in for him. The memory of Tony’s death-plunge and his sense of guilt fled as he walked down the middle aisle, bowing from left to right, recognizing faces of friends, and he knew that they were all noticing him intently because, for the first time in ten years, he was fifteen minutes late. These were his people; they needed him and he needed them; theirs was a world in which little children did not, for wildly mysterious reasons, tumble from balconies to their deaths; in this world there were no dark, faceless strangers knocking at the doors of one’s soul...

  He shook hands with Mrs. Claxton, his assistant; with Deacon Bradley, the treasurer; and with forty-year-old, shy Miss White, the Sunday School secretary. Mrs. Claxton leaned toward him and whispered:

  �
�I was beginning to wonder...”

  “A terrible accident happened in my building this morning,” he whispered to her. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Mrs. Claxton’s gray eyes widened in sympathetic concern as she nodded, not skipping a beat of the music or a word of the hymn.

  The deep-throated, sonorous tones of the organ made him join in the hymn; he lifted his baritone voice to swell the volume of song. He was contented. He was home...

  The opening remarks had already been made by Mrs. Claxton and the next items were a prayer by Deacon Bradley; the reading of the minutes by Miss White; and the treasurer’s report, also by Deacon Bradley. Following that, Erskine would introduce the morning’s topic which, according to the Sunday School book he held in his moist fingers, read:

  GOD’S ETERNAL FAMILY

  A murky illustration depicted Jesus speaking to a vast crowd at the edge of which stood Mary, Jesus’ mother, and her sons. Below the picture ran these verses:

  ST. MATTHEW, 12: 46, 47, 48, 49, 50

  46 While he yet talked to the people, behold, his mother and his brethren stood without, desiring to speak with him.

  47 Then one said unto him, Behold, thy mother and thy brethren stand without, desiring to speak with thee.

  48 But he answered and said unto him that told him, Who is my mother? and who are my brethren?

  49 And he stretched forth his hand toward his disciples, and said, Behold my mother and my brethren!

  50 For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother and sister, and mother.

  As he sang he studied the text, seeking a clue. Wasn’t this a clear call for him to regard Mrs. Blake as his sister in Christ? Perhaps God, in His in infinite wisdom, had chosen him as an instrument when he had innocently caused poor little Tony to topple to his death? Yes; he’d find a way of making amends to Mrs. Blake. Perhaps he, too, was being mysteriously chastened of God...Since God had foreordained all, had prescribed the ends of life, why should he exert himself to act? Willful, selfish action on his part might well be impiously presumptuous! It was now clear that to take this problem to the authorities would be foolish.

  The beginnings of a tentative solution began to shape themselves in his mind. Yes; he’d talk to Mrs. Blake...But what would he say to her? Need he confess to her his stupid part in that abominable accident? But why, since he was not guilty of anything? God had but placed him on that balcony as a witness of a tragic misfortune, and he had to resign himself to God’s will. Yes; he’d find a way to help that poor Mrs. Blake...

  During the reading of the minutes and the secretary’s report, Erskine resolved that he’d sound the note of God’s universal family when he introduced the morning’s text to the congregation. How fitting that Divine grace was shedding upon him the means to escape the poignant, terrible image of Tony’s little white face, the tiny mouth gaping in terror, those frail fingers clawing futilely at that sagging, iron railing! Yes; that accident was God’s own way of bringing a lost woman to her senses; and he knew that his judgment of Mrs. Blake was right, for hadn’t she wallowed shamelessly in the fleshpots of nightclubs? God had punished her by snatching little Tony up to Paradise—had garnered Tony home from the evil of this world. He, Erskine, was but God’s fiery rod of anger! And on what better ground than that enclosed by the church’s four holy walls should such revelations dawn in his soul? A sense of mission seized him. Yes; God was giving him a mandate to face Mrs. Blake and have it out with her!

  When the moment came for him to expound the religious, the philosophical, and emotional meaning of the morning’s theme, he rose and spoke with a fervor new to him and his audience was moved to quiet wonder.

  “...out of the coiling confusion and paltry accidents cluttering our daily lives, we can build nothing lasting, nothing true,” he intoned. “We must follow the Spirit and allow God to act in us as arbiter between the seductions of a deceptive world and His everlasting claims. How reedlike we are when left to our weak wills and debased instincts! Who, of his own puny strength, possesses enough virtue to guide himself through the maze of this sinful world? What a mixture we are, we who are in this world but are forbidden to be of it! What fearful battlegrounds are our hearts!

  “But, in the midst of this dark strife, God has not deserted us! His gift, pointing the way to truth, has assumed the guise of a sign that no man can possibly overlook! What is that sign? THE FAMILY! And with what a common-place attitude do we regard this sublime spectacle of the family that comprises God’s mighty parable, a parable in which He has couched our lives from childhood onward! Man-made families lurch and wreck themselves on the rocks of circumstance, but one has only to lift his eyes, tear himself away from selfishness, and he sees, with the help of God, another family, God’s eternal family—a family whose foundations are built of God’s will and love.”

  Patting his damp brow with his folded handkerchief, Erskine concluded in simple but stern tones:

  “‘Who is my mother? Who is my brother?’ “ What terrible words! But what saving words! With one master-stroke of His sword of righteousness, God cut the chains of human slavery and made us all free, free to see mothers and sisters everywhere, free to recognize brothers in our neighbors, free to extend our claim of kinship! Christ challenges you to do as He did: Take the hand of even your loved ones and bring them into that higher, greater family which is of God! Christ likewise enjoins you to clasp hands with your neighbor, even your enemy—those who hate us and whom we hate—and lead them into that family where hate is no more, where enemies are transformed into brothers, neighbors! Christ denied His mother and His brothers, but only to make all women His mother and all men-His brothers and neighbors!”

  He sat, compulsively assuring himself that his colored pencils were intact There was discreet hand-clapping, which was unusual for the decorous, middle-class members of the Mount Ararat Baptist Church. Mrs. Claxton leaned and whispered with admiration in her eyes:

  “It was wonderful!”

  “Mrs. Claxton,” Erskine spoke on the spur of the moment, “would you be kind enough to take charge of my class this morning? I’m at loose ends. A child whom I loved deeply fell to his death from my balcony a few minutes before I left my apartment—“

  “Fell, did you say?” she asked.

  “Yes. Ten floors.”

  Mrs. Claxton’s right hand flew to her mouth and her eyes rounded with shock.

  “Oh, dear God!” she breathed.

  “He was only five years old. It shook me, I tell you—”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “He was a little friend of mine.”

  “That’s why you looked so pale when you came in!”

  “Did I? I didn’t know—”

  “The moment I saw your face, I knew that something had happened.”

  “I was stunned,” he mumbled, wiping his brow.

  “Wasn’t the child properly looked after?”

  “His mother was sleeping...She’d been out night-clubbing.”

  Dismay made Mrs. Claxton’s fingers flutter.

  “The times we live in,” she sighed. “Now I know what made you speak so eloquently this morning....Of course, Mr. Fowler, I’ll teach your class. But I’m not nearly as good as you are. I’ll do my best.”

  “You’re a good teacher,” Erskine told her. “And you’re kind.”

  The congregation had risen and was forming itself into groups based on age and profession. Erskine’s class was composed of business and professional men and women. He was grateful that Mrs. Claxton was standing-in for him and he listened to her slightly quavering voice but his real attention was elsewhere; his consciousness was seduced by the persistent image of Mrs. Blake’s nude, voluptuously sinful body which he had glimpsed twice through his open window...

  After Sunday School had let out, Erskine took Mrs. Claxton’s hand in his own and implored her: “Please, tell Reverend Barlow that I shan’t be at the afternoon or evening services.”
/>
  “You don’t feel well, do you?” she asked compassionately.

  “Really, I don’t.”

  “We’ll miss you,” she told him.

  Though the distance was more than fourteen blocks, he decided to walk home. But the moment he was on the hot sidewalk, under the noonday sun, amid the passers-by, his mood of confident righteousness began to ebb. Had anyone seen him on that balcony? Had the Medical Examiner or the police found any clues that would make them suspect that someone had been with Tony on that balcony? Maybe the police were waiting to question him now...God! He suddenly didn’t want to go home. And Mrs. Blake, what could he tell her? He’d offer her his condolences; but after that, what? Where was that neat solution that he’d been hugging to his heart back there in that dim, song-filled church? He must talk to somebody about this...No; he couldn’t! His steps slowed. There was but one way out of his conscience; he had to see Mrs. Blake and settle this thing...But something in him warned him off from her.

  He entered Central Park. Sunday couples loitered. The sun blazed. Children skipped and ran. A little girl blew bubble gum. A black boy sat on a bench reading a comic magazine. A cloud of pigeons whirled in wild freedom in the sky and he could see their taut, almost transparent wings. He found an empty bench and sat. He was hungry, but the idea of food nauseated him. Nervously he rubbed his damp palm across his eyes. Blast it all, what was he to do?

  He fell into a tense brooding, trying to reorder his situation into a meaningful design. Yes; that foolish Mrs. Blake was the cause of all his trouble....Had she been the kind of mother she should have been, none of this would have happened. His eyes narrowed as recollection brought to his mind the kind of images that proved his thesis.